Rouge My Heart
by Kara Malarkey
Summary: SS/HP, AU. Severus is devastated and broken, and seeks bodily solace in the local red light district. Once there, he is captivated by shining green eyes and midnight-black hair. But as always, what he wants, he cannot ever have. Or can he?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:**

Rating: T for now, but will be M for some cover-your-eyes-don't-look! scenes here and there _(duh, one of my characters is working in a whorehouse after all)_

Pairing: SS/HP - (very confused) Alternate Universe

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, I would do anything and everything in my power to NOT LET THE FANDOM DIE AFTER DH PART 2 SHOWS. -cries hysterically-

Summary: Severus is devastated and broken, and seeks bodily solace in the local red light district. Once there, he is captivated by shining green eyes and midnight-black hair. But as always, what he wants, he cannot ever have. Or can he?

Ahahaha, I suck at summaries, I know! Feel free to rewrite that in your own head. Twist it into something artistic please, thank you.  
>So, yes, I haven't updated my other story, 'Resurface' (go check it out!) but I assure you, I will. Classes are over, and freedom is mine for the taking (and chaining to my bed, if I could). So please feel free to anticipate more updates from me! This new fic was very much inspired by Moulin Rouge, so please don't hurl flaming deathballs of fan-rage plagiarism accusations at me. Thank you, and read on.<p>

**_- - - - Rouge My Heart - - - -_**

**_Chapter 1: Cover it Up For None to See_**

Bitter.

_Bitter._

Everything was so _bitter._

He relied on it heavily before now, the drink in his hand, but it seemed that tonight, nothing would offer him solace. No one – not one – no, no one.

Even her.

Suddenly a different kind of bitterness flooded his mouth – and not only there, it overflowed in his chest, his eyes, his breath, everywhere. It chased him even here, to the edge of oblivion. Would it recede, he thought, if he threatened to take a step?

He took a swig of his drink almost violently, and it returned empty, almost exactly onto its white ring of lukewarm water.

''Ey mister, I fo' one fink you've ha' a li'l too much ta' drink ter-night!' came a voice from in front of him, and he looked up to see the bartender polishing a beer mug. Severus, though thoroughly sloshed, knew when he had overstayed his welcome. So he dug a few pounds out of his coat pocket and placed it on the table. He stood up, albeit a bit unsteadily, and walked out of the deserted bar.

The old houses and alley ways made for quite a sight, covered in several feet of snow. It was nearly midnight, and not many people were out and about. Severus, with his slightly damp hair hanging over his face and his hands stuffed in his thick black coat pockets, trudged down the street, going nowhere in particular.

He briefly thanked the snow beneath his feet, in the air, in his lungs. It was so bitterly cold and harshly stinging that he could forget, even for just a while, the pain he so desperately wanted to escape. He could sense it, the pain, snaking up on him; preparing to ambush him from behind, wanting nothing more than to sink its poison-soaked fangs into his torso, his shoulder, his vitals.

At least the snow would numb the bite.

Actually, it already was. The bite. Numb.

No, was that the snow or…?

Severus supposed that the pain was numbing itself. Like when you hear so much that you hear nothing. Feel so much that you feel nothing. Hurt so much that nothing hurts anymore.

See so much that you see nothing anymore. White. All he could see was the white of fresh snow. A few million steps later and it was gray, a million more and it was red.

This startled Severus out of his dull reverie, and he looked up.

"Ah, the red light district," he mumbled to himself. Severus was so lost in his own world that he didn't notice where his legs were taking him.

Signs flashed by him, painted his skin and his trench coat with harsh neon colors. Most of them – the signs – were red, and they splashed blood-light haphazardly on the slush. The buzz from the alcohol had somewhat died down by now, and Severus saw that he could vaguely read the various establishment names. One particularly tasteful building caught his eye.

"Red Morphine…" it read, and it reminded Severus of the cause of his problems, the result, and his solution: Lily, pain, numbness. Consecutively.

Severus walked past the gilded black marble pillars and opened the equally black double doors. He was greeted by a hospital reception area; except completely done in elegant black, red and gold. In the room were faux leather sofas, a few medical posters of "How to Find Her G-Spot" and "The Prostate: All You Need to Know!" and a clean reception counter.

"Good evening! Have you a reservation?" greeted a blonde ponytailed woman in a red latex nurse's outfit, not to mention, in matching black knee-high leather boots.

"No, I'm a walk in," Severus replied. _'Ah, so this is a role play whorehouse, eh?'_ he thought as he was beginning to regret his impulsive decision to step into the building.

"No matter, it's a slow night, what with the snowstorm due anytime soon. Almost all of our highest earners are free. Care to take a look?" she said, cheerily, as she handed him a clipboard with a sheaf of thumbed-through pages on top. "The tops are on the bottom, just approach reception when you're ready," she sang merrily as she went off to attend to a new customer.

Severus hummed to himself and looked through the first pages. Nearly all of them were dog-eared and slightly stained. Severus didn't really want to know with what, so he skipped through all of them and came to the separated section at the bottom. He noticed that, unlike the upper half, the bottom options had a little more dignity in their costumes. _'Their earnings must justify the lack of skin then. How depraved,'_ Severus thought. _'But then again, as a patron, who am I to speak?'_

Just then, as Severus was randomly thumbing through the "upper" echelon staff catalogue, his eyes locked upon midnight black and striking green. And suddenly, he didn't much care about being depraved or empty – only the primal desire burning within him, a fire as green as the eyes he was staring down at.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes:**

Rating: T for now, because I couldn't decide if I should make it M for this chapter (I think I should).

Pairing: SS/HP - (very confused) Alternate Universe

Disclaimer: Yes I do. I'm Jo Ro and I'm secretly posting my BL fetishes on (No, I'm joking, I don't).

Summary of last chapter: Severus is devastated and broken, not to mention drunk, and seeks bodily solace in the local red light district. Once there, he is captivated by shining green eyes and midnight-black hair.

I forgot to mention that this is very much inspired by the "Roxanne" scene in Baz Luhrmann's Moulin Rouge! Go watch it if you haven't, it's an amazing musical. :3  
>And, if there are any things here that you find confusing... Well, some bits of it are kind of... Dare I say, deep? So please, if ever I finish this fic, I hope you reread everything and hopefully understand it better. :D<br>So please read on, and oh so graciously review!

**_- - - - Rouge My Heart - - - -_**

**_Chapter 2: Blind, Save Color_**

Silk sheets. They slid sensually against the soft skin of his calves, slithered beneath his fingertips, caressed his cheeks. He reveled in the gentleness of it all – at the inability of this silk to be anything _other_ than gentle. He vaguely remembered being strangled by these very same sheets as he was thrust into from behind, the hole of his member brutally fingered. He couldn't remember if he enjoyed that night, if he enjoyed the dissolving of the world around its edges, the pain in his urethra mixed with the pleasure of that slick cock slamming into his prostate over and over and _over…_

That customer enjoyed blurring pleasure and pain. Very much so. Yet Harry couldn't, for the death of him (not that _that_ mattered), remember how that particular story ended. Did he cum so much he passed out? Asphyxiate? Scream and beg for more?

No, everything was a blur. Everything, mixing, swirling into a mass of swirling silver water. He remembered seeing a Pensieve once, before he was thrust into this mad world of money, pleasure, pain and haze.

_Enough of that. You'll break the spell._

Not that there was any spell to break, really. Nothing was casted.

A knock came from the door on his quarters. Something like that should've startled him. As it stood, nothing ever did anymore. The door opened just a fraction.

"Harry, you have a customer. He likes the Japanese one," said a male voice from outside. "You needn't change the room; I assume he'll like it just fine."

"Thanks Remus," Harry replied, getting up from the luxurious king size bed with its dark olive green sheets and blackwood frame. His hands absently caressed the carved snakes, and they seemed to slither and writhe in delight. "I'll be ready in fifteen minutes," he added.

Remus nodded and let his eyes examine the boy, his charge, for a moment; a moment in which he could easily tell why Harry was the top earner in the male submissive division of their staff. Shoulder length hair, smooth as silk and black as the sky before dawn. Pale skin from staying inside for the better part of his life, yet with muscles toned enough from the rigorous daily routine Mistress Bellatrix made her staff undergo. A slim torso, long gorgeous legs, and elegant hands; _'they better be perfect,' _Remus thought, _'After all the potions they made him choke down and creams they slathered on his skin. Not that they made that much of a difference. Harry was perfect even before he was brought here. Save for the bruises.'_

But most of all, the pivot upon which balanced the beam of his perfection, was the contrast of all the pale and black and cream upon the emerald of his striking eyes. Any man or woman would be tapped in the head if they didn't find Harry attractive.

'_Bellatrix was lucky she got him. And broke him.'_

"Did you need something, Remus?" Harry asked.

Remus hesitated. "Are you alright, Harry?" he asked in reply.

"I don't know. I think I'm not, but I can never tell anymore."

Remus wanted to run out into the streets and unleash his wolf on every man and woman that dared patronize brothels like Red Morphine. His Harry, _his _Harry. Broken and shattered, so far from what he used to be. His only consolation was that Harry was always truthful with him. To the others he always answered, "I'm fine," and "I'm alright." Remus knew he wasn't, he was never the same. Even though Remus knew second to nothing about Harry's past before he came to Morphine, he didn't care. This boy was _his_, his _cub, _and it killed something deep inside him every time Harry's mask would slip, and this poor defenseless doe would seep out.

Remus walked inside the luxurious and darkly designed Victorian room and took Harry's delicate face in his hands. "Harry, cub, know, _always _know… That I will be here for you no matter what. Come what may, love. Come what may. I will be your constant," he whispered as he placed his forehead upon Harry's. He noticed how cold Harry's skin was.

Harry's hands clenched upon Remus's robes as if he were a lifeline; and honestly, he was. He was the only thing Harry could truly rely on, no matter what. The beautiful words that slipped from Remus's chapped lips, Harry believed them all. The rough pads of his bodyguard's fingers brushed his high cheekbones. Harry reveled in the feeling. Reveled in the assurance that he could still actually feel.

"Thank you, Remus."

"Anything for you, Harry. Anything."

"I'd better start dressing. Please stay in the sitting room as usual," Harry implored. Though numb as he was, there were still limits to what he could take, as he was only mortal. The liquid that spilled from his wounds was not ichor, but blood; red and perishing, just as he.

"Of course."

The next minutes passed in a blur, in a trance, in a purple haze. Harry put on the numerous layers of the Japanese yukata a Wizengamot member bought for him, though he only tied the very base layer – one of pure white silk. The rest of the layers were a harmonious cacophony of elegant colors, but the one Harry favored the most was the top, the _Uchikake_. It was thick and rich and solid. Harry slid it on almost reverently and with such grace. It covered his arms 'till just before his fingertips, and trailed behind him like a wedding veil on drugs. But what captivated Harry the most was the design: it was a basilisk and a phoenix in battle, they filled the back completely, and the war raged until the front of the kimono, colors, green and red at each others' throats.

"I must say the photograph does the real thing absolutely no justice," came a voice from behind him. Harry turned and found a mass of black: black hair, black trench coat, black boots. This customer was striking, the colors around him were held tightly and rigidly. Harry would remember him by this, in the future. Most probably not immediately, but perhaps, if the stranger permit it, after the fourth or the fifth time. After then, this solid mass of black would definitely make its mark.

"Are you my customer?" Harry asked as the black-man approached with sure and steady strides. He grasped lightly the sides of Harry's jaw, trailing his fingertips; a strange combination of silky smooth and callously rough, as if they were hardened hands melted once by acid, by volatile potions. They mesmerized Harry as they traced the lines of his face, running down now along the sides of his pale neck, tracing the hem of the kimono, running down his chest. His head lolled to the side, savoring the touch.

"You're beautiful," the customer whispered.

"May I know your name?" Harry asked, breathlessly.

"Why?"

"So I may shout something out when you fuck me fast, hard, and deep," he answered.

With that, he was swiftly swooped up into the black-man's arms and deposited, gently yet quickly, onto his bed. The man loomed over him, and the sheer dominance he exuded had Harry gasping and squirming. This man had no control, all of it had been stripped away by the alcohol Harry could taste-smell on his breath.

Suddenly, his soft lips were assaulted by cold dry ones, but never had a kiss made him feel so frantic. The contrast was striking, and he wanted more. He quickly granted the forceful tongue entrance, and it plundered his mouth hurriedly, languidly, forcefully, yet with control. Harry shivered and felt his loins tighten.

"Name?" he gasped out as they separated. He looked briefly at the string of saliva that stretched and glistened between them. It snapped after a moment, and he returned the black-man's gaze. The jet black irises bore into him with such intensity and ferocity that…

"Severus," the man replied, and now his voice was just as black as he was, and he was kissing Harry again, more languid this time, and at the same time harder.

After that, they were a magnificent tangle of bodies, glistening and hot. But it soon became clear to Harry that there was nothing _truly _special about this man; he was like all the others. Desperate, starved, depraved, hungry for physical touch. Thus he operated automatically, as if he were a muggle machine. He doubted if Severus noticed the change, though. Nobody ever did.

And it came, the joining of two souls, yet more taboo was this, between two men, one of them a courtesan, a prostitute, a whore. To Harry, it was all the same. This man, black-man, made no difference: just a variation on the same theme. Pleasure was pleasure, and pain was pain. Fucking was boring and monotonous, but Harry knew nothing else.

The night flowed on, like a sparkling river of fright and mystery, and the two bodies continued their fucking deep into night – it was what was paid for, after all. Severus would not – could not – be satisfied only once or twice. He knew that after this night, his body would crave this single courtesan night after night, again and again.

But still, he left once his time was up, and he donned the black trench coat that had been discarded carelessly in sheer passion. He steeled himself for the frigid cold of the early morning and set off for home.

He walked: a solitary black figure against the landscape of white.

Footsteps gave him away: tracing back to where he had discarded the control he was so famous for.

And green eyes haunted him still.

**A.N: **Please note that in this chapter, the usage of the word "black" does not entail any sort of race or person of color. It merely means the color itself.


End file.
